things that burn
by nathan-p
Summary: The School is not a great place to work. The health benefits are pretty good, but being treated alongside something with thirty-six teeth in its grinning mouth is not exactly a calming experience. What is it like to work there? Strong language.


You can't have long hair and work at the School. You can't even get past the first interview.

They'll find some other reason to tell you no, but the real reason is the obvious one: long hair is a hazard.

Also, Jeb Batchelder will queer-eye you about it until you cut it, but the main reason is the hazard bit.

He may be able to genetic-engineer circles around Roland ter Borcht, but that doesn't mean he doesn't fucking love clothes.

* * *

"Fire extinguisher! You moved it!"

I didn't even look up, just pointed toward the red box in the corner. I heard the door clang open and running footsteps as whoever needed to put out a fire grabbed his prize and got the fuck out.

He'd better bring it back, or I was going to have to commit a murder. You'd think that in a government-funded secret institution we'd be able to keep ourselves in fire extinguishers.

What they said in training was that we were all accountable in case of emergency. If something happened everyone was supposed to respond.

What actually happened was that I pointed people to the first aid kit or fire extinguisher and kept working on my report, because the last thing I wanted to do was incur the wrath of the high priest of Animal Testing, or of his technical inferior the duke.

Besides, it wasn't like fire was a terribly uncommon experience here. For some reason the gas lines liked to explode from time to time. And there was a running prank war that frequently involved soaking or otherwise impregnating things with other, more flammable things.

Eyebrows were not in fashion in Animal Testing.

Chemical spills or animal bites, also fairly common. Well. Until your reflexes got better. Bitemarks were the mark of the newbie - being able to pin a snake-ocelot without incurring wounds was pretty much a daily job.

Dave was kind of our mascot, but he was also a mean bastard.

We technically have self-opening doors on those little camera systems you see in supermarkets and places, but they rarely stay closed for long - at least when you're someone's secretary (like I happen to be).

So the next thing that happened, as I started in on the conclusion of my memo, was someone else running in.

"Where's the - oh fuck, did Reilly take the fire extinguisher?"

I kept my eyes on the screen. "Yes, sir. I think he shouldn't be allowed to use chemicals without supervision anymore. That's the second this week."

"I knew I hired you for a reason." An embarrassed cough. "Say, do you have a minute?"

I hit send and stood. "It's probably on fire, so yes."

"You're remarkably astute," he quipped.

For fifty-five, Doctor Batchelder was fairly well-preserved. Which was kind of a miracle - you'd figure with all the disaster he tended to attract he'd have dropped dead years ago. But he seemed to thrive on it, somehow.

(That, and getting blackout drunk whenever his schedule permitted - our well-kept secret.)

I buttoned the top button of my lab coat, snapped on gloves. "What is it and do I need to bring the chemical spill kit?"

"Dave's throwing a fit, Reilly's probably on fire, we have a problem in the nursery, someone's fucking about with the server again. And no, I think we'll be fine." He grinned. "Cute shoes, by the way."

They were work boots, but I got the compliment - I'd dropped eight kinds of acid on the damn things in the months I'd owned them and they were still holding together. Without duct tape, even.

An explosion boomed through the hall and he took off running without explanation. From a standing start he was fast as a jackrabbit, and I knew he'd get to the scene of the crime well before I did - I went after him anyway.

It speaks to my workplace that unlike most sane people, we were running _towards_ the explosion.

Jobs that don't produce burn injuries on a regular basis are jobs for pussies.

* * *

I've kind of gotten used to seeing familiar faces on the news at night. Usually it's a pretty fair indicator of an impending pay rise combined with another non-disclosure agreement.

But the night I saw Paris go up in a cloud of dust and rubble, my supervisor listed as one of the missing, I got the feeling things were about to change. And probably not for the better.

* * *

note: I have not read and do not intend to read Nevermore. I just happened to find this languishing in my documents and figured why not get it off my hard drive - I had written it about a year ago and for some reason never published it.


End file.
